wretchedness

these beasts
resting
in the corners of my mind
demand tribute,
at least in the form
of listening.
I can
not
tolerate them,
despite having lived with them
since I was able to speak.
To feed them: it is burden.
They spin the dreams
of joy and pleasure,
of milk and honey,
the almond trees' flower's scent;
they concoct long walks
in wintry cities
with the warmth of closeness,
and naked exposes
of passion
in rose gardens,
swimming in mountain pools,
feet dangling
in lapping waters.
They spin these dreams
and more
into a life better
than I've ever been able to
live.
They provide a constant reminder
of all that I have not been,
that i may never be,
while i live with myself
and sleep with myself
and shower with myself
and wipe my own ass
and stare
at my own visage
in the mirror
by myself.

Without you.

Without love.

Pale,
gaunt,
waiting to die
while remembering
so much
and so little,
giving the beasts
their unearned tributes.
They are,
after all,
my memories
and my experiences
and my time
and my life
as it was,
before now.
They have always been
mine,
only worthless
so that no one
would give bread
for such a memoir
of filth
and wretchedness.